Barlinnie Prison
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Rabbie Gold knows the streets of Glasgow, and he knows the value of things. He knows that an incarcerated father who cannot care for his son isn't worth anything at all.
1. The Gorbals

Rabbie Gold is a man who knows the value of things.

He knows the street value of one gram of magic dust is twenty quid. He knows that a finger of heroin is valued at five hundred pounds sterling. He knows the Barlinnie Prison saves 2,400 pounds each month the administration leaves the prison library across from his cell unstaffed and unused.

He also knows that a man who cannot protect and care for his own child is worth less than nothing.

Some days he wakes early, before the fluorescents switch on in the cells, and Rabbie imagines the feeling of his son's snug, wee body nestled against him. He and his boy shared the same sagging mattress on the floor of their flat ever since Balfour was an infant. Rabbie kept the milk bottles lined up along the edge of the bed and fumbled with them in the dark. He had loved the sweet, soapy scent of Balfour's damp curls after a bath. When his boy was old enough to talk, he loved whispering back and forth in the darkness until they both fell asleep.

_"Da, what happens to things when they die?"_

_"I dunno, Bal. I dunno that anyone honestly knows that."_

_"Da, what happens to me if you die?"_

_"Bal...I'm not planning on dying, son. Not for a very long while. I'll always be here. I'll always keep you safe."_

_"But what if you did die, Da? If you was walking along, and a truck came up from behind and killed you? Who would stay with me and take me to school and fix my meals?"_

This was a difficult question to answer. Rabbie Gold has no family worth speaking of. His father walked out on his mum when he was still in nappies. His mum had left him with _her_ mum when the lure of drink and heroin overtook her. And his grandmum had been a hard woman to love. She was taciturn and unhappy, quick with a belt or the back of her hand. She died from heart failure when Rabbie was thirteen, and he hadn't mourned her long or deeply.

After her death, he had been on his own until Balfour came along. He ran deals, mostly illegal, and dodged the truancy officers and child welfare officials. He slept on the couches of his mates, who were illiterate hustlers like himself. Sometimes he went hungry, and sometimes he was flush with cash. Always, he yearned for a different life, a decent place to call home.

He met Balfour's mother, Molly, when he was nineteen, and for a short while he was happy. She was beautiful, far too beautiful to be wasting her time on a skinny stray like himself. All his mates warned him she was only in it for the drugs and free drinks and a place to stay, but he wanted so badly to believe she cared for him. He loved sharing his bed with a woman. Rabbie would twine her long, dark curls around his fingers after she had fallen asleep, and sometimes he would whisper into the darkness everything he wished for the future: a flat of their own, a large family, steady work.

Of course, when the money dried up, Molly left. She took up with one of his better looking mates. 'Killian' was the bastard's name. The pair left Glasgow together on a ferry when a drug deal went sour.

Nine months later, Molly reappeared looking strung out and peevish. She found him sitting on a stoop on Bedford Street, in the seedy heart of the Glasgow Gorbals. She carried a dingy car seat. In it was a squalling, red-faced newborn.

_"It's your son, Rabbie," Molly says, her bloodshot eyes skittering away from his. "I wasn't going to keep him, but then…" She shrugs. "Killian doesn't want a baby, not now anyway. I can't be a mum to him. I'm too young. There are too many things I still want to do."_

_She places the handle of the car seat in Rabbie's hands._

_"What's his name?" His voice is shaking. So are his hands._

_"I named him Balfour, after my Da."_

_"It's a good name...a strong name." Rabbie cannot take his eyes from the little mite in the car seat. He unbuckles Balfour and lifts him gingerly to his shoulder, taking care to support his fuzzy, wobbly head. The baby's nappy is soaked through, and his cotton jammies are wet to the ankles._

_"I have to go, Rabbie." Molly sees the tears swimming in his eyes. She sees the gentle kiss he brushes over Balfour's temple and the way he begins to tenderly shush and jounce him. Molly doesn't rightly know if the boy belongs to Rabbie or Killian, but she knows who will be the better father._

_As she turns to walk away from her son, Molly feels sadness. Yet overshadowing the sadness is a blessed sense of relief. Tonight she will sleep soundly with no baby to wake her with its mewling, and tomorrow she will leave with her lover for another thrilling trip across Europe._

_"Molly, wait! I don't know what I'm meant to do!" Rabbie looks up at her, wet-eyed and frantic._

_She hardens her heart, thinking of Killian and the many adventures he has promised her. "Feed him. Change him. You'll figure it out, Rabbie." She turns on her heel and walks out of his life again._

_Balfour is still crying. "It's okay...it's okay..." Rabbie tells him, even though, of course, it isn't. Not when your mum's walked away and left you with a stranger. "I'm your, Da. Shhh...shhh..."_

_Rabbie has money enough in his pocket for two cheap plastic bottles and one can of formula. The nappies and wipes he has to get from the baby pantry at the local homeless shelter. He gratefully accepts secondhand clothing and blankets from the clucking, elderly volunteers. A kindly woman who goes by 'Granny' shows him how to tend to Balfour's diaper rash and fasten his nappy so that it won't leak. She gives him the paperwork to go on public assistance and apply for a subsidized flat._

_"You have a good heart, son," Granny tells him as Rabbie carefully buckles Balfour back into the car seat. "It's in the eyes. I can tell. You'll be an excellent father. Just love him, and the rest follows easily enough." He nods, not trusting himself to speak._

_After that, he straightened his life out, all for Bal. He quit running deals and got a job at the textile mill on the River Clyde. The work was tedious, threading machinery and laying cloth, but it paid the childminder and put food on their table. Rabbie was still illiterate, hard-featured, and nothing much in the eyes of the world, but Bal didn't mind in the slightest. Bal's sun rose and set with his Da._

"Excuse me?" A woman's soft voice disrupts his early morning reverie. Women's voices are never heard in the men's cell block.

She is peering into the cell of Mad Jefferson, adjacent to the darkened prison library across the hall. Jefferson is awake and upright, but catatonic.

"Sir," she whispers to Jefferson, "Can you tell me whom I should speak with about seeing to the light bulbs in the library? Is there a maintenance office in this wing?"

She is beautiful. Rabbie can tell just from her profile. Her long, russet curls gleam beneath the dim emergency lights that line the cell block. Her nose is upturned and her cheeks have a charming fullness, even though her build is slender. She is slight. Shorter than him, even.

He stands and walks to the bars in his nightshirt and prison-issue cotton pants. It won't do for this lovely girl to rile Jefferson. The man can go from catatonic to raving in mere seconds. He might terrify her.

"Miss..." He calls quietly across the hallway, wrapping his thin, grey blanket around himself for modesty. "Miss…"

She turns, and he is struck dumb. 'Beautiful' doesn't even _approach_ what this girl is. She is altogether angelic. Her eyes-the bluest he has ever seen-are rimmed with thick, sooty lashes. Her lips are exquisitely full and rosy. Her cream wrap dress appears to be made of the softest, most expensive wool, and she wears a delicate locket on a gold chain.

Girls like this simply don't exist in the Gorbals.

"There's a janitors' closet on the first floor, miss." Rabbie stares at the cement floor as she approaches his cell. Although he has spent the past nine years of his life in the Barlinnie Prison, he is still ashamed when regular, decent people see him behind bars. Particularly this woman, who takes his breath away.

"Thank you, sir," she says, and her voice has the sweetly lilting melody of the upper class. She's likely from Bishopbriggs or Hillhead. She probably was raised by two doting parents in a posh brick rowhouse or perhaps on a sprawling, green estate. She certainly attended private schools. It's unlikely she has ever come into contact with men such as himself before.

"It's my first day on the job, and I was so anxious I couldn't sleep. I figured I'd get an early start. They gave me the keys to the library at the security station, but it's in a rather sorry state, and the lights won't come on."

He chances a glance up at her, and Rabbie feels the full impact of her dazzling, dimpled smile. _Good God._

"My name is Belle Ferguson. I'm the new librarian." She extends her soft, white hand through the bars, and for a moment he is too startled to take it. When at last he encloses it in his own, Rabbie flushes and his heart quickens. He cannot hold her warm, candid gaze, so he stares down at the buttery brown leather of Belle's knee-high boots.

"My name is Rabbie Gold, miss." The fluorescent lights flicker on, and he is mortified that this girl will see his tiny cell, his unmade bed, his rusty sink with the broken plastic razor, and his low, lidless toilet.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gold." Her smile widens. He realizes he is still holding her hand and drops it with an apology.

"Sorry. Sorry. Just Rabbie...please…" No one _ever_ calls him 'Mr. Gold.'

"Rabbie, then." The clomping of a guard's sturdy boots can be heard down the hallway, and Belle murmurs, "Excuse me…" before vanishing from view.

He can hear her lovely voice, asking the guard to unlock the janitors' closet. He realizes he has been holding his breath and exhales slowly.

After his breakfast in the noisy dining hall, Rabbie watches Belle from beneath his lashes, pretending to rest on his cot. She has already replaced the light bulbs and is now dusting the book shelves. She is seemingly unconcerned about the state of her dress and mussed hair. She glances over from time to time and smiles at him, causing his heart to race ever faster.

Later on, Rabbie will realize that he actually fell in love with Belle the very first day they met. He was just too flustered to know it then.


	2. Robert Burns

One Monday morning, after shyly watching Belle for weeks from his cell, Rabbie gathers his courage and walks into the prison library.

Early on, she had worked twelve hour days, dusting the shelves and scrubbing the desks and reorganizing the law books. It gives him a wonderfully secure feeling, watching her walk in each morning and returning her little wave. She drinks tea. Always from the same dented travel mug on her breaks. He lives for her soft 'goodnights,' staring after her as her heels click down the hall in the evenings.

Belle has hung up beautiful landscapes in the library: Scotland's craggy coasts and rolling hills and picturesque fishing villages. She has brought in new, polished wooden tables and comfortable chairs. There are artful book displays in the front. Not just law books and statutes, but lively, colorful books that must be works of fiction. There are well-stocked magazine racks that the other prisoners pour over: pictures of cars, and hunting equipment, and machinery on the glossy covers.

Rabbie suspects that someone in administration spoke to her about her clothing. Belle dresses more conservatively now, in dark wool trousers and soft, wool turtlenecks. She wears her lovely hair drawn back in a high ponytail. It makes no difference. She is breathtaking, and the prison library has a steady stream of male visitors.

When Rabbie walks in, Belle is speaking in low tones with a one of the prison guards. The guard is tall, with the sort of rugged good looks that women are often drawn to. Rabbie knows him as the sort of man who gets off on exerting power for power's own sake. He has always given this particular guard a wide berth.

Doing his utmost to look composed, he pretends to examine a display of books stacked near the front. After a weekend spent staring at the darkened library, Rabbie is determined to speak with Belle before he returns to his cell. He picks up a book with a red and green tartan cover. Of course, he cannot make out the title.

"Rabbie! I thought it was you. Do you read poetry?" Startled, he drops the book. Both he and Belle bend down to retrieve it at the same time, and Rabbie draws his hand away, stumbling backwards.

Belle stands and holds the slender volume out to him, smiling her dazzling, dimpled smile. "Robert Burns. An excellent choice. Did you know that he went by 'Rabbie,' too? 'Oh, my love's like a red, red rose…'"

She waits for him to finish the phrase, and-_Oh God_-he wishes he were the sort of man who could do so. He wishes he were the sort of man who could quote poetry and make little quips about writers that would have her giggling, and perhaps they would then become friends, and he could stop by for a regular chat, and she would look forward to seeing him, and...

"You haven't read Burns yet," Belle concludes. "You'll _love_ him. Look-" Belle retrieves the book from his hands and consults the table of contents. Flipping to what must be the verse she quoted, she hands it over.

His brow creases, and he does his best impression of scanning and enjoying the poem, but when Rabbie lifts his eyes and sees Belle's eager smile, he finds he cannot help but tell her the truth: "I only learned to read a little, and it was a very long time ago in primary. I'm sorry. I...I don't know why I came in…" Cheeks aflame, he thrusts the book back into her hands and quickly turns to leave, but Belle catches him by the elbow.

"That's _nothing_ to be ashamed of, Rabbie. Many men in Barlinnie cannot read. It's one of the main reasons I was hired. I worked as a reading teacher and librarian at Bishopbriggs Academy before coming here to Barlinnie. I'd be happy to teach you." Her hand is warm against his inner arm.

Bishopbriggs. He'd known she was posh. No, he will not stutter over his letters in front of this sweet, well-heeled girl, even if it would be heaven to have an excuse to visit Belle and know her better.

"Thank you! Thank you...but no...I'll be released soon...this spring, and it would just be a waste of your time."

"But that's wonderful, Rabbie! You're going home! I hope I'm not too forward if I say-you don't sound particularly _excited_ about the prospect."

What can he answer? He _has_ no home to speak of. His few remaining mates have fallen away, over the years. Of course, many of them are also incarcerated. He's lost the one thing most dear to him. Bal is _never_ coming back. He has no skills, no trade apart from running deals. The textile mills have all closed and moved overseas. At least here he has a cot, clean clothing, and three square meals. It's cowardly, he knows, but Rabbie is _afraid_ to leave Barlinnie Prison.

"Time to go, son." The tall guard walks over to stand beside him, and, in a display of dominance, takes Rabbie firmly by the shoulder to escort him from the library. Belle smiles kindly after him as he goes.

She is still hard at work shelving books when he returns from dinner that evening. It must be dark outside-well beyond regular hours for prison staff.

At last, Rabbie watches as she turns off the lights and locks the library door. His breath hitches as she meets his eyes and walks across the hall to stand in front of his cell. He scrambles to his feet.

"We may sit in our library, and yet be in all quarters of the earth." She grins. "Sir John Lubbock, my great-great grandfather said that." She passes him a large, glossy book through the bars. "Reconsider, Rabbie?"

He glances down and sees that it is an art book. Scottish landscapes in oils. Rolling hills and waves crashing against the rocky shore. "I'd be too embarassed," he tells Belle in a very low voice, half-hoping she doesn't catch the words. She reaches through the bars and gently touches his shoulder, smoothing and erasing the guard's rough touch from earlier that day.

"Come visit me anyway," she says with a sad smile, and then she is gone. Moments later the fluorescents flicker off.

Rabbie sits and stares at the landscapes for a long time in the dim glow of the emergency lights. He is restless and cannot sleep.

When at last he lays back on his little cot and draws the thin blanket over himself, he feels her warm hand upon his shoulder. He hears her lilting voice saying, "Come visit me anyway." He imagines Belle at home, in her bed too now, and wonders what it would feel like to be the man who is privileged to hold her while she sleeps, smelling the crown of her head and curling an arm around her waist. Surely she has someone? A girl like that? And yet she wears no ring...

He feels himself swell and grow hard at the though of Belle in her soft bed. Her long legs tangled in the bedclothes. What would it be, to see her face lit by moonlight? To brush back those silky curls and kiss those smiling lips? What would it be like to cradle her head against his shoulder and discover what she likes best, his fingers stroking and cupping between her soft thighs? Involuntarily, his hand travels downward, sliding over his straining erection, but Rabbie catches himself with a quiet moan. She is infinitely above and beyond a desperate, lonely prison wank session. How could he look her in the eye after? He forces himself to think of Scottish landscapes, of coastal towns, of rural scenes, of what his life will be like when he's finally forced to move on from this place and there is no Balfour waiting on the outside and no Belle sipping tea in the room across from his. At last, in the early, grey hour before dawn, Rabbie falls asleep.

"I brought you something." Belle is grinning ear-to-ear when he returns the art book to her the next day with a shy 'thank you.' She rushes over to her desk, which is piled high with books, and retrieves a headset attached to a little cassette recorder. "Listen to this." She brushes back his longish hair and places the headphones over his ears.

He hears..._her_ voice! Belle has recorded herself reading the poem from the other day. "O my Love's like a red, red rose/ That's newly sprung in June/ O my Love's like the melodie/ That's sweetly play'd in tune..." Belle presses the book with the tartan cover into his hands: "Look!" She is showing him where her voice corresponds with the poem, smiling with unconcealed delight. "I recorded the first ten poems last night, and I can easily do more, Rabbie. If you'll have it?" She grins and raises her eyebrows, waiting for his answer.

He is too touched to speak, so only nods 'yes,' adoring the pitch and cadence of her recorded voice: "As fair art thou, my bonnie lass/ So deep in love am I/ And I will love thee still, my dear/ Till a' the seas gang dry..." Belle presses 'stop' on the cassette recorder and takes the headphones from his ears. "You can keep it, Rabbie." She gestures to the book. "It was the copy I used in university. Now it's yours." She opens the cover and points to his name, which he recognizes, written in her lovely, looping script. When he flips through the pages, not yet prepared to meet her eyes, he sees her notes written along the margins.

"No one has ever given me a gift like this. I don't know what to say, Belle." His voice cracks on her name, and he swallows several times.

"Say you'll come visit me. You don't have to take lessons. Just stop by for a chat."

And so he does. For the next few months they talk almost daily. He visits her on Fridays when his cell block is allowed in the library. She stops by to say 'good morning' and 'good night' every weekday, always with a new art book and cassette. Rabbie grows to hate weekends when the library is shuttered and dark. He tells her about Balfour, in a low voice so that the men in the adjacent cells cannot hear.

He tells her about that wretched, cursed night when Balfour was seven. His boy had wanted to buy some new clothes and shoes for the upcoming school year. There was a little lass named Emma he was desperate to impress. Bal was at last old enough to be embarassed by the worn hand-me-downs his Da could afford. So Rabbie had decided to run _one little deal._ Just some easy money. Just to please his son.

He had left him alone that night. The childminder, whom Bal was beginning to insist wasn't necessary, had headed home, and Rabbie had told his boy: "I'll be right back, Bal. There's just something I need to pick up at the store, then I'll start dinner. Bangers and mash okay?"

It broke his heart, knowing how long Bal must have waited for him that night, growing hungrier and more terrified with each passing hour. Rabbie had imagined countless times how awful it must have been for his boy when the child welfare officials arrived and took Bal away from their flat. He knew his boy. He knew he would have fought.

With his extensive juvenile record, Rabbie's incarceration was a certainty. It was only a matter of how many years he would spend behind bars. When he was sentenced to nearly a decade in Barlinnie, Bal's foster family petitioned the probate judge for an adoption. They allowed Bal to visit for the first two years of Rabbie's sentence, but then Bal began to run away, and the family-good, decent people-decided it was in their adopted son's best interest to cut off contact with his criminal father. Rabbie hasn't seen his boy since he was nine.

"Will you try to find him when you're released?" Belle asks. Rabbie's release date is fast approaching. Less than three weeks away. The thought makes him nauseous. He is happy now, in a bittersweet way. He has Belle to talk with. He has her recorded voice in his ears every night as he drifts off to sleep. Sometimes poetry. Sometimes folktales. Sometimes her own memories and stories, shared only with him.

"His new family wouldn't like it," he tells her, clenching his hands. "They're good people. His life is with them, now."

Belle says nothing, just reaches without hesitation through the bars and puts her hand over his. "Where will you go, Rabbie?"

He licks his lips nervously, and she know this gesture. Belle knows _all_ his gestures by now. He doesn't have a good answer for her. He is stalling.

"There are halfway houses in the Gorbals," he says at last. "There is a shelter that helped me, when I first had Bal."

"So you need...a home?" Belle says quietly, her eyes wide and kind. His breath catches in his throat. What exactly is she offering him?

"I've been thinking of how lonesome it will be, when you're gone," she tells him, gathering her courage and rushing ahead. "Come stay with me, Rabbie. As long as you like. I'd be so happy to have your company. I have an extra room..."

What else can he do but agree?


	3. Homecoming

Rabbie stares at three new outfits, laid out on his small cot. Presents from Belle.

Within the hour, he must change out of his familiar prison uniform and walk out of Barlinnie forever. The gut-clenching anxiety wouldn't allow him to keep down his bland breakfast this morning, nor his meager dinner the night before. His cannot stop his hands from shaking.

There was a special errand Belle needed to run, but she has promised to come and meet him when it's time to leave. He feels faint-headed, staring at his new clothing. There is a pair of jeans and a grey cotton tee. There's a soft pair of brown corduroy slacks with a checked, button down shirt. And there's a suit. A beautifully tailored wool suit complete with a brilliant blue shirt and matching tie. Belle has even brought him shoes: gleaming black dress shoes to match the suit and soft leather loafers to complete the other two outfits. He tries to imagine her in a posh store on Buchanan Street, fingering the cloth and deciding which clothes will suit him. None of this seems real. Tonight he will sleep in a proper bed in _Belle's house_. And tomorrow-tomorrow, after nearly ten years, his life begins again.

As for how he will ever repay her...well, he hasn't a clue.

He chooses the suit, because she obviously spent the most money on it and because he thinks it will surprise and delight her.

When at last Rabbie hears Belle's heels click down the cell block, accompanied by the heavier thud of a guard's boots, he nervously runs his hands through his long hair one, two, three times, then throws his shoulders back and anxiously waits for her reaction. He is rewarded with an astonished gasp.

Belle's lips part in a captivated smile when she sees his selection. The guard fumbles with his keys, but at last-at last!-the bars slide open, and she steps toward him, lifting a palm to his cheek and brushing back his shaggy hair with her other hand. "It _is_ you," she teases in a soft voice, shaking her head at the transformation. "I've never seen a man so handsome, Rabbie." He blushes, and the faint feeling returns, but she slips her arm firmly through his, and then they are leaving his cell behind and walking out into the hallway.

"True Love." Mad Jefferson sits on his cot, watching them sagely. It's startling to hear his flat, hoarse voice. "True Love can break any curse," he informs Rabbie, then resumes staring at the ceiling.

"Be well, Jefferson," Belle says kindly. "I'll see you on Monday." Jefferson hums a tuneless melody but doesn't respond.

Belle stands close by his side while Rabbie sorts through the small plastic bag of personal belongings that were confiscated when he was first taken into custody. There is a food assistance card, an expired Scottish Citizen Card, a crumpled picture of Bal at five, and a battered nylon wallet. He keeps the picture of Balfour, tucking it into his suit pocket, and chucks the rest into a nearby trashcan.

"Are you ready?" she asks, taking his arm again. Rabbie swallows and nods, not feeling at all certain.

They walk out together into the warm spring sunshine. Snow is melting in slushy piles near the entrance to the prison. Green bulbs have begun to push their way up through the damp, loamy soil. The feel of a warm breeze upon his face and the smell of wet earth is heavenly. Just before they reach the front gate, Belle stops, turning to him.

"Rabbie, I've brought someone..." She feels his body stiffen against hers. "It's alright, truly. It just that...your son's name is uncommon. When I first heard it, I remembered a Balfour from the Academy. I didn't want to lead you to hope until I knew for certain. I spoke with his family, and the Darlings confirmed that he was adopted-that he's your son. I told them what a wonderful man you are. How it broke your heart to lose him..."

Rabbie's eyes widen, and he clutches her arm. "He's here? He's here_ now?"_ He swings around and takes a stumbling step towards the front gate, then freezes. A lanky, handsome teenage boy is standing between a well-dressed couple in the sunshine. His dark hair tumbles forward into his eyes much the same way Rabbie's does. His eyes are the same warm shade of brown.

"Da?" the boy asks, and then louder: _"Da!"_ Balfour rushes past the gate to his father and throws his long arms around him.

"My boy! My Boy!" Rabbie is weeping as he clutches Bal, not caring who sees it, and there are tears in Belle's eyes as well. Mr. and Mrs. Darling walk over to stand beside her, and, despite their innate poise and self-possession, Belle can see that they are also moved by this tender scene.

"I was wrong to keep Bal from visiting; I see that now," Mrs. Darling says in a low voice. "We have other adopted children, and some of Balfour's brothers come from families that have caused them nothing but heartache. He was hurting so badly when he came to us, and nothing we did seemed to help it. I thought he needed a clean break from his past, but I can see that I was mistaken..." Mrs. Darling discreetly brushes away wetness from the corners of her eyes with her gloved fingertips.

"I told Balfour I would mail his letters," Mr. Darling confesses quietly, "And I promised he could see his father again when he turned eighteen. But...I didn't mail them, and I never intended for him to..." He breaks off, looking at his polished shoes, steadying himself. "We just wanted what was best for him," Mr. Darling says at last.

"I know it," Belle reassures them, "And I also know that you gave Bal a loving home when he needed one. What's done cannot be undone, but look..." She gestures to father and son. Rabbie has laid his hands on either side of Bal's face, drinking in the sight of him. "They're together now. They've found their way back to one another. I think we should be thankful for that and leave them to it."

The Darlings agree, and Belle takes her leave: "Bal has my phone number," she tells Rabbie. "He wants to take you out for breakfast and show you his house and neighborhood and school. Just call when you're ready to come home and get settled in. Take as long as you like. I'll be waiting."

"Thank you, Miss Ferguson!" Bal leaves off hugging his Da and grins at Belle. "We miss you at school. The new librarian never has a laugh with us the way you used to."

Balfour proudly leads his father to a scratched and dented yellow car, one he obviously saved for and purchased himself. "Do you want to drive, Da?" he asks, but Rabbie just shakes his head 'no,' entirely overwhelmed. The old car sputters to life, and then they are gone.

Belle spends the rest of her day off reading and readying the house. She cannot stop herself from smiling as she makes up the guestroom bed with fresh linens, reliving the joyous reunion again and again. She laughs out loud as she pulls a tray of muffins from her oven, remembering the wonderstruck look Rabbie had thrown back over his shoulder as the yellow car left the prison parking lot. Nothing has ever delighted her like making this unassuming, unbearably sweet man happy.

At last, when the sun has just set, Belle's phone rings, and it's him on the other end. "I'm ready!" Rabbie tells her. "We're at the pub on Kirkintilloch Road-what's it called again, Bal? We're at Quinn's, Belle!" He sounds just the slightest bit tipsy, and wonderfully merry.

"I'm on my way!" The thought of him enjoying chips and a pint after so many years of prison meals on plastic trays is delightful.

Quinn's is a charming pub. A welcoming rush of warm air greets Belle as she pushes open the glass door. The dark wood paneling and bright brass accents give it an intimate, old world atmosphere. She finds father and son in the back, their heads almost touching as they lean together over a scratched wooden table. The remains of a pub dinner is spread out in front of them: empty pint glasses, burgers, chips, a half-eaten haggis and fish cakes. The suit coat hangs from the back of Rabbie's chair, and his tie is tucked neatly into the front pocket. When Rabbie notices her approach, he gives her the crinkly smile she's grown very, very fond of and rises so quickly from the table that he bangs his knee. He curses under his breath, rubbing at his hurt leg, but the smile never leaves his face.

"Are you okay, love?" Belle asks, also rubbing his leg, not noticing the way his cheeks flush at her brisk touch and at the offhand endearment. "Are you sure you're ready to go? Balfour, would you like to come back with us and see your father settled in?"

"Thank you, but no, Miss Ferguson. I have a date with my girlfriend later tonight. Da understands." Bal exchanges a private smile with Rabbie. "And he and I have made plans to see each other Sunday."

Rabbie limps beside her across the parking lot, holding onto her arm, and Belle opens his car door and helps to ease him into his seat. He'll have quite the bruise on his knee come morning, but he doesn't seem particularly perturbed. Rabbie talks more during the long drive back to Belle's home than he ever has in one sitting before. He tells her of Bal's life: how Bal _never_ forgot about him, how Bal was planning to visit him as soon as he turned 18, how Bal went through a rough patch in early adolescence but came out of it okay. His son has a good life in Bishopbriggs-his own room, an excellent secondary school, a large, happy family, and a girlfriend who loves him.

"And it's the same girl, Belle! There was a blond lass in the Gorbals who stole his heart when he was only seven, and he ran into her again in the city. What are the chances of that? He says he wants to marry her someday..."

When at last Belle's car rolls to a stop in front of her little cottage on the bank of the River Clyde, he is still talking.

Her home is a good distance from Glasgow and the Barlinnie Prison. Rabbie hadn't noticed how far they had come until he stepped out of the car and sees, for the first time in nine years, starlight. Belle's cottage is tranquil and remote. It lies on two untamed acres that edge up to the river. This far upstream, the slow moving water is clean and clear. It shimmers and babbles beneath the full moon.

He exhales slowly as he walks inside. Watercolors and oil paintings hang on every wall. Paintings are also propped against the bases of over-stuffed bookcases: landscapes and portraits and still-lifes. It's deliciously snug, and Belle makes it even more so when she hurries over to light a peat fire in the iron stove.

In a corner by a south-facing window is an easel with an artist's smock hung up to dry. "Are all of these yours?" Rabbie asks, marveling over the paintings.

"Yes, nearly all of them. Would you like to see your room? Or would you rather start with a tour of the rest of the house?" Her eyes are aglow, and she reaches out and takes him by the hand.

They tour the house first: there's a homey country kitchen with a plate of muffins set out for snacking. There's a den with overstuffed chairs and even more bookselves. There is Belle's bedroom, with its antique writing desk, a second easel, and an inviting, four poster bed. There is a tiny room for doing laundry and storing dry goods.

And then they arrive at Rabbie's room. It's everything he's ever wished for. There's a properly made up bed with goose down pillows, soft flannel sheets, and blue patchwork quilt. Belle's landscapes are hung up on the walls, and there is a small bookcase with empty picture frames, waiting to be filled. There's even an adjoining bathroom, all his own, with sweet smelling soaps and a new razor blade for shaving. Belle shows him his pajamas and robe, carefully folded inside one of the dresser drawers.

"Your shirts are here, and your socks are here..." She shows him, drawer by drawer, his new life. His fresh start. When at last Belle finishes, she asks, "Are you hungry, Rabbie? Can I get you anything?"

He shakes his head 'no.' "I don't know what to say to all this, Belle-how to thank you for...my boy...this room...the clothes..._everything_..."

She stops him, laying a hand on his chest. His heart beats hard against it. "It gives me so much pleasure to do this. You're such a wonderful man. You've become one of my closest friends. Someday you'll be in the position to repay the favor to someone who needs your help, and I know you won't hesitate." She steps back, withdrawing her hand, and Rabbie suppresses the powerful need to snatch it back and press his lips to her palm.

"I'll let you get settled in," Belle says softly, "I was thinking of making us crepes tomorrow morning. And then walking over the property? Would you like that?"

Rabbie swallows, not knowing how to ask her to _stay. Please stay. He doesn't want to be without her. _

"Yes, that sounds wonderful," he replies, as evenly as he can manage, and then she is shutting his door with a soft click, and her footsteps are fading away to somewhere else in the house.

He changes into his new cotton pajamas and wraps himself in the warm robe. He washes his face. He brushes his teeth. He paces. He sits on the soft feather guest bed. He turns off his lamp and lies down. He turns on his lamp and sits up.

At last, Rabbie opens his bedroom door and pads out into the dimly lit living room. Belle, thank God, is still awake. She is reading on the couch in her nightgown, wrapped in a throw blanket.

"You couldn't sleep?" she asks kindly, moving her feet to make room for him. Rabbie sits as close to Belle as he dares, staring at the floor. He feels a gentle hand laid upon his lower back, moving in slow, soothing circles. He feels another hand come up to stroke his rough cheek. He leans against it. _He needs this. He needs her. He doesn't know how to ask for what he needs. _Then he feels himself pulled by her strong, slender arms to rest against her neck and shoulder. Belle wraps her warm blanket around him as well, and he smells her sweet, inviting scent. He feels her soft body pressed against his through the thin cotton nightgown. He cannot move. He cannot breathe. He cannot speak.

Belle lifts her book into the lamp light, and Rabbie recognizes the tartan cover and the markings from the prison library. It's the same slim volume of poetry from before. All at once, he remembers to breathe. Belle brushes her lips over the crown of his head, then murmurs into the shell of his ear: "Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear/ And the rocks melt wi' the sun/ O I will love thee still, my dear/ While the sands o' life shall run." He closes his eyes, memorizing the feel of her arm wrapped securely around him, the feel of her fingers stroking his hair with infinite tenderness. He feels...adored. Beloved. Safe. He feels like he's come home after a long ramble in the cold.

Rabbie swallows, opening his eyes and marshalling his courage. He takes the book from her hand and reads the final passage: "And fare thee well, my only Love/ And fare thee well, a while!/ And I will come again, my Love/ Tho' it were ten thousand mile." The hand stroking his hair stills, and he feels his cheeks flush hot.

"Rabbie, did you memorize, or..."

"No, I-I learned it from your tapes and your book, Belle. Look..." He opens to another page and reads, his finger trailing beneath the words: "But to see her was to love her/ Love but her, and love for ever..." He pauses, remembering her margin note. "This one was your favorite, although it wasn't as famous as the rose poem. It's my favorite, too."

"That's extraordinary! _You're_ extraordinary!" Belle exclaims, and he feels the press of her lips against his hair once more. Her nose and mouth linger there, and Rabbie again closes his eyes, letting the book gently drop to the floor. He _aches_ for this. He aches to belong to her and only her, to have her possess and mark him with her kisses everywhere, everywhere.

He tilts his chin up, begging shamelessly for the touch of Belle's lips against his. He doesn't dare open his eyes, but he feels her hand cradling the back of his head, urging him to close the distance between them. When at last her soft mouth brushes over his, he moans-a needy, embarassing sound-and he parts his lips, desperate for the feel of her tongue against his. He is desperate to taste her. Without realizing it, he has begun to rock against her, trying the ease the ache of his straining erection by pressing and softly thrusting against her hip. Belle deepens the kiss, pulling him closer and flickering her tongue into Rabbie's mouth, sending little jolts of electricity through him. Her hand travels from the back of his head, down his back, lightly tracing his spine, lower, lower, until she is cupping his arse, encouraging him to find his rhythm and rut harder against her.

He breaks away, cursing, his breath coming in shallow little pants. "Belle, I'm-I'm in love with you," Rabbie confesses, opening his eyes so she can see the truth written there. "I've loved you since the first day I saw you. I'll always love you. Please tell me if you don't feel the same way. It would break my heart to have-this, and then to have it taken away. I've lost so much already..." His eyes are wet, and his body is shaking with the effort to be still, but Rabbie waits, watching her, breathing hard.

Belle's blue eyes are wide and dark, and he can feel her heart racing beneath him. "I adore you, Rabbie. That very first day, the first time we spoke, I had the strangest feeling, as if I had known you for years, and we had only just found our way back to one another. I love you, too. Your heart is safe with me. I'll keep it safe."

He groans his relief and captures her mouth for a greedy, messy kiss, his tongue running over her lips, her teeth, her tongue. Rabbie feels her fingers hurry to undo the small buttons of his pajama shirt, easing it off his shoulders, before they return to graze lightly over his sensitive, pebbled nipples. He sucks in his breath, then fists her nightgown, rutting desperately at her hip, moaning into Belle's mouth as her hand travels lower. The moment her fingers breach the waistband of his pajama pants, Rabbie cries out, jerking himself upwards by the back of the couch so that she can cradle his aching cock in her palm. Her fingers close mercifully around him, and for a few blissful moments he is lost to everything but the soft encouragements she croons in his ear and the steady, pleasurable rhythm she sets with her hot, tight hand. Nearing his release, Rabbie scrambles for some last shred of control: "Belle, I'm close!" he pants, "Please, I won't be able to last...I want so much to please you...please...wait..."

Her hand slows between his legs, yet Belle whispers fiercely, "I don't _want_ you to last for me, Rabbie. I want you to fall apart for me. It's what I've imagined every night after I've come home from work: what it would be like to watch you come for me. I promise I'll show you everything I like afterwards, but right now I want you to come for me."

He whimpers when she takes her hand from his cock and moves from beneath him, but then-Belle is standing in front of the couch, lifting her thin cotton nightgown over her head, and then-she is naked before him, her lovely brown curls spilling over her pale shoulders, not quite long enough to cover her beautiful, rose-tipped breasts. Between her white thighs is a thicket of dark curls that he longs to bury his face in. He reaches out for her with a wordless cry, and she straddles him, covering his pleading mouth with her own, grinding against him. "Tell me what you imagined in your cell, Rabbie," Belle urges, between kisses. "Tell me what you saw when you closed your eyes at night. I imagined you so often..."

He cannot say it, cannot put it into words, so he shows her, dipping his head to lap and suckle one of Belle's perfect breasts, whimpering when he feels her arch against him. Rabbie's fingers dig into her back, and he tugs greedily upon her nipple with quick, hard little sucks, his other hand moving without his awareness to free his erection. Belle's fingers follow his, tugging down his pajama pants beneath her thighs and then-_Oh God!_-easing onto him slowly, slowly until he is buried within her wet warmth.

His head falls back against the couch cushions, his lips parting, and the sounds he is making as Belle rocks against him aren't human. He's gasping and keening, begging her unintelligibly for the release he needs, and Belle is leaning forward, her breasts pressing against his bare chest, raking her fingers through his hair and whispering, "Just like that? Yes, just like that. Oh baby, I know. It's been so long, hasn't it? Let go for me, Rabbie. I want you to let go, love. I can feel how close you are...fall apart for me, Rabbie. You're almost there, love..."

Belle riding hard against him and whispering his name sends him falling over the edge, and he yells and jerks beneath her as she gathers him close, praising him, whispering how wonderful he is, how good that made her feel. When he has control of his limbs once more, Rabbie wraps his arms around her, burying his face against her throat. "I love you, I love you-so much, Belle. So much." They rest together, their breathing slowing and their hearts beating in tandem.

Later that night, Belle keeps her promise to show him _everything_ she likes. She helps him curve his fingers just so and cup her between her wet thighs. She comes against his eager fingers, and then against his eager tongue, and then he is hard for her again. They make love slowly with their eyes open, and it is everything he imagined. The early hours before dawn find them tangled together in Belle's four poster bed. He twines his fingers in her hair and whispers everything he wishes for their future: a fresh start, a large family, time to make things right with his boy.

**_Epilogue_**

As it turns out, Rabbie Gold was never meant for city life.

He spends long, happy days tending the modest farm he has coaxed to life from two acres he shares with his wife on the River Clyde. Their property is no longer overgrown. It's bursting with life: three children that he lovingly cares for during the day while Belle teaches prisoners to read, a large vegetable garden, a small orchard, even some woolly sheep and a sheepdog. Balfour comes round for supper every Sunday with his wife Emma and their son, Henry, and the children play together in the fields while the adults enjoy an after dinner drink.

Rabbie still twines his fingers in Belle's soft curls at night, whispering his dreams into the darkness: a good growing season, a weekend at the coast, and, someday, a cottage full of grandchildren.


End file.
